City of the Dead (6 page)

He lit another candle and returned to his book, John Steinbeck's Cannery Row. He'd read it three times since he'd sealed the door. It was the only book inside the room, with the exception of an old issue of Entertainment Weekly, a thriller by Andrew Harper (with everything going on outside, that was the last thing he wanted to read), and Myrna's Chicken Soup collection. He hated those Chicken Soup books. Wondered if there'd ever be a Chicken Soup for the Undead Soul book. Probably not.

The muffled gunfire erupted again. This time, it didn't

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fade, continuing unabated for a full minute. He heard different explosions, which meant different guns. There was a brief pause and then more.

Don De Santos jumped out of his chair.

"Jesus Christ!"

His voice sounded funny to him. It was the first time he'd spoken aloud in nearly four weeks.

He listened to what sounded like a war breaking out nearby and wondered what to do about it.

Before the Rising began, Don De Santos had been a successful media consultant, one of the thousands for whom New Jersey was simply a bed and breakfast in between the daily treks into Manhattan. He had a lovely wife, Myrna, and a son, Mark, who had just started his first year at UCLA. A house in the suburbs, a dog named Rocky, a silver BMW, black Ford Explorer, and matching his and hers Honda motorcycles. Life was good, and his investment portfolio was even better.

That changed when Rocky got hit by the car. Had it happened two minutes later, he would have been on his way to catch the train and Myrna could have dealt with it. But fate hadn't worked that way. He was just pulling out of the garage; his coffee nestled between his legs and one hand already dialing the cell phone, when he heard the alarming squeal of brakes in the street, followed by a sickening thud.

Rocky had sneaked out of the garage and run into the road, where he'd met the bumper of Mr. Schwartz's Chrysler. Most of his innards had spilled into the street. At least he hadn't suffered.

Myrna dashed across the yard; shrieking like a banshee, robe trailing behind her. Panting, Rocky raised his head, looked at her, and then died. Myrna knelt over

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him, weeping and clinging to his fur while Schwartz apologized over and over.

"Oh Christ! He ran right out in front of me, Don! I couldn't stop in time!"

"It's all right. There was nothing you could do."

"Not my Rockeeeeee ..." Myrna wailed.

In the distance, the old air-raid siren at the fire station blurted to life, startling all three of them. Its wail eclipsed Myrna's.

Don sent Schwartz on his way, assuring him that there were no hard feelings or pending lawsuit. Then he grabbed a blanket from the linen closet and gently peeled Myrna from the dead dog's corpse. He rolled Rocky onto the blanket, nose wrinkling in disgust as more of the dog's entrails spilled out, and dragged him into the garage, unsure what to do next. He folded the blanket over the dog. The fire siren blared on, making it hard for him to think. It was answered by what would be the first of many police sirens that day. An ambulance raced down the street, and for one bizarre moment Don thought it was coming for Rocky. Then it sped past.

"I wonder what's going on?" Myrna sniffled.

"I don't know. Go on inside, hon. I guess we'd better call Mark's dorm and let him know about Rocky."

"It's too early out there. Remember, he's in California."

"But it was his dog too. You know how much he loved Rocky."

She began to cry again.

"What will we do with-"

"I'll take care of it."

"I want to cremate him," she replied. "Let me get myself together and I'll go down to the vet's. Can you-can you put him in the Explorer for me?"

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He nodded, kneeling down to cover the dog up with the blanket again. For some reason it had slipped off.

A police car flashed by in the ambulance's wake, followed by another. Don opened his mouth to comment and that was when Rocky bit him.

The dog's hair didn't stand on end. There was no warning growl or bark-no sound at all. One minute Rocky was dead, his intestines cooling on the garage's cement floor. The next, he sank his teeth into Don's hand, right between the thumb and forefinger. Screaming, Don tried to jerk his hand away, but Rocky dug in, shaking his head in defiance. The dog's eyes rolled back, showing the whites.

"Oh shit! Myrna, get him off of me!"

Shrieking, she beat at the corpse. Rocky refused to budge. His muzzle was crimson with both Don's blood and his own.

"What's happening, Don? What is this?"

"I don't fucking know! Just get him off me, God damn it! My hand!"

Myrna reeled back, hysterical. Frantic, Don glanced around the garage. A claw hammer lay perched on the tool bench, but he couldn't reach it.

"Myrna!" No response, just more sobbing. "Myrna! God damn it, look at me. Please?"

"I-I ..."

"Grab my hammer from the tool bench!"

"I-I can't."

"Do it," he roared. "Do it now!"

She ran, arms flailing helplessly, and returned with the hammer. The dog's teeth felt like rows of hot needles. Rocky regarded him while he chewed. For a second, Don thought he saw something reflected in those dead eyes, something dark. Then the dog shook his head

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again, burrowing deeper. Don was beyond pain now, beyond fear. He focused on the siren, still bleating in the background, as shock enveloped him.

Myrna handed Don the hammer. Slowly, with a sense of calm, he raised it over his head and brought it crashing down. There was a solid crunch as the swing ended between the dog's eyes. Then he raised the hammer back up and hit it again. Rocky let go. Immediately, the dog's jaws snapped at his leg, but Don lurched backward.

Rocky sat back on his haunches, staring at Don with clear contempt. Then the dog opened its mouth and tried to speak. Vocal cords that had never formed words before began to do so now. To Don's eyes and ears, it was like something inside the dog was borrowing the animal's vocal cords for its own purpose.

"Rrrraaarrgghh! Rowwwlll!"

"Jesus ..."

Rocky seemed to laugh.

Grimacing, Don swung again.

The dog's head collapsed as the hammer sank deep inside.

Rocky died a second time.

That was how it started. They left the dog's bloody corpse laying inside the garage. Later, while Myrna went to the veterinarian's office to make arrangements for disposing of Rocky, Don drove himself to the emergency room to see if he needed stitches and to get a shot, just to be safe. The hospital echoed of chaos-pure, raw anarchy. Waiting and wounded patients whispered of a possible biological or chemical terrorist attack, something that was making people and animals turn crazy. Homicidal dead ducks attacked an old man in the park who fed them every morning. A rapist cut an old woman's throat, only to have her turn the knife back on him minutes

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later while he was humping her corpse. A bus driver had a heart attack behind the wheel, died-and then purposely sent the bus careening into a crowd of people at the next stop. A woman shot her husband in a domestic dispute and then he rose up and shot her back, along with the cops responding to the call and the paramedics sent to revive him.

When he was finally admitted after many hours of waiting, Don watched a patient in the next trauma room flatline, then start thrashing a few minutes later, grappling with the doctor hovering over him. The EKG showed no heartbeat, even when the man began biting the doctor. Don left the hospital after that, making do with antibiotics and a gauze pad.

Myrna didn't come home that night. Calls placed to the veterinarian's office were met with a busy signal, just like the calls to Mark's dorm. By the time Don decided to look for her, the police were ordering people to stay in their homes, and the National Guard was patrolling the streets. The electricity and the phone lines went out soon after that. He wondered about Mark, and hoped the situation was better in California-but even then, he knew in his heart that it wasn't.

He checked on his next-door neighbors, Rick and Tammy and their son Danny, and made sure they were safe. The neighbors on the other side, the Bouchers, were on vacation in Florida. After checking in with Rick, Tammy and Danny, Don went back to his home, weeping for his wife while praying for her return, and locked himself inside the panic room.

After the fourth terrorist attack on New York City, Don had hired a security company to convert the closet in Mark's now empty bedroom into a panic room, using frame materials that were resistant to forced entry, high

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winds, and even bullets. He'd spared no expense. The walls, floors and ceilings were all lined with thick plywood for extra strength, and an alarm system, Modem, and phone were installed as well. The electromagnetic lock insured "top security with an ability to withstand tremendous forces" (as per the brochure), and could not be picked or pried open. An electronic keypad with a key code allowed entry only by those who knew the combination-Myrna and himself. A solar powered backup battery was installed on the roof, in case the electricity was suddenly cut off. It operated the alarms, the phone, and the keypad.

He had plenty of bottled water and dried food, batteries, matches, candles, a handgun, knife, and fire axe. He could wait out whatever was happening outside.

He'd been asleep when Myrna returned.

The keypad's beeping woke him. Somebody was on the other side, entering the code. There was a mechanical click and then a rush of air as the door slid open. The bedroom beyond was dark, but he could see her silhouette in the doorway.

"Myrna! Oh my God, honey, where have you been? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Don."

Don paused. Her speech seemed oddly muffled. Distorted.

"Well, I'm just glad you're home. I've been worried sick. I thought that maybe you were-"

"Dead?"

"Yes." He got up, his joints stiff from sleeping on the floor.

Myrna stepped into the room, into the soft glow of the candlelight.

"I'm afraid she is dead, Don. Just like Rocky and

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Mark. It's just me in here now. But you can join them, if you'd like. In fact, I insist!"

"W-who?"

She lurched toward him, the thing that wore his wife's body. One broken leg trailed behind her, and there was a gaping, pink hole where her nose had been.

"Myrna?"

"She was cheating on you. Spreading her legs for Mr. Pabon, the guy who owns the Mexican restaurant. Twice a week and overnight when you were away on business. His dick was bigger. Much bigger."

It looked like his wife, spewed obscenities with her mouth-her voice. It knew about their son and neighbors-but Don realized that the creature wasn't Myrna.

"You lie."

"No, I don't. It's in here." The zombie tapped Myrna's head with one broken fingernail. "It's all in here. She wrapped her legs around him when she came. You could never make her do that."

"I don't know who you are, but you're not my wife!"

"You want to know who I really am? Come here and let me show you."

Don swallowed and then ran for the pistol on the card table. The handgun was a family heirloom. His grandfather had been one of the first Hispanic soldiers to serve in the Philippines during World War Two, and had passed the government-issued Colt .45 with the eight-shot clip down to him. Next to it lay an open box of Cor-Bon ammo.

The zombie lunged for him.

He didn't bother to aim. He didn't have to. Myrna was right on top of him, clawing at his shirt. She pinched his left nipple between her fingers, trying to tear it off

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with her bare hands. He shoved the gun between her breasts.

"I'm sorry."

Don squeezed the trigger. Myrna jerked backward, then giggled. She twisted his nipple again, pulling on it now. Screaming, he fired another shot. The bullet passed through her shoulder. She paused, and then lurched forward, broken leg still trailing.

"You're starting to piss me off, dear," the creature said.

A low moan escaped Don's lips.

Cackling, her jaws descended on him.

He placed the gun against her forehead and fired again. The entry wound was the size of a thumb, but the back of his dead wife's head splattered across the panic room, spraying the wall with blood, brain tissue, and fragments of bone.

He hadn't heard another gunshot until now.

Don pushed away the memories. Outside, the barrage continued. He wondered who it was. Perhaps the army had finally arrived. Maybe he was saved! Maybe it was over!

He weighed the risks of leaving the panic room. But the firefight blazed on, and he had to see what was happening. He reached for the keypad, had a terrible moment where he thought he'd forgotten the code and would remain trapped inside, then remembered it, and entered the sequence. The door slid open.

Immediately, he noticed the stench. The smell of death.

It was risky to go to the ground floor windows. Too much of a chance of being spotted. Instead, he went upstairs to the attic. It would give him the best vantage point.

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From there, Don looked out into hell.

Next door, Rick and Tammy's property crawled with zombies. He tried to count them, but there were too many. Most were armed with shotguns and pistols, baseball bats and butcher knives. Many were his neighbors; he spied Schwartz, the Padrone kid from down the street, and Mr. Pabon among them.

Pabon ...

She was cheating on you. Spreading her legs for Mr. Pabon.

Don smiled grimly.

"Fuck my wife, will you?"

Pabon's corpse was just starting down the strip of lawn between the houses. A fence ran down the center, and on Don's side was a long, narrow swimming pool, specifically designed to fit between the homes for the purpose of swimming laps rather than recreation. A black shape rested at the bottom of the pool but he couldn't discern what it was. Three years earlier, Don had engaged in a private battle with his county's Board of Zoning Appeals regarding their prohibition against pools in the backyards. He'd gotten a lawyer, petitions from neighbors, the whole works, but the county government had ultimately forbidden him. Finally, he realized that there were no laws against pools in the side yard, so he'd built one there instead, just to spite them. He and Rick had had a good laugh about it at the time.